


Competitive Orgasms (a Game for the Insecure)

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint is a little bad at feelings, M/M, Phil is also insecure, Porn, Really guys comparing orgasm quality is a little pointless, Sex Pollen, Shower Sex, Truth Serum, and sex pollen with sap, but it's fisting with feels tho, clint is insecure, oh hey fisting, refractory periods consistent with sex pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the problem is, Clint doesn't know how he's going to compete with Phil's self-identified previous best orgasm, which is his own fault for asking and also why does he do this to himself.  Fortunately, he gets some help from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Competitive Orgasms (a Game for the Insecure)

**Author's Note:**

> This time, astonishingly, I was successful at writing porn with actual porn in it. 
> 
> I didn't have a beta handy; if you notice anything spellcheck and my eyeballs didn't catch, feel free to point if you like.

So, most of the things that go wrong in Clint's interpersonal relationships are his own damn fault because thinking things through before he opens his fucking mouth, or, well, not tactical things because duh, he's good at that, but like, personal shit? God, not his game. Which was not a problem for a lot of his life because when you're happy with a relationship status of serial monogamy of the one-night stand variety, you really don't have to concern yourself all that much with thinking about whether you will hurt the feelings of your lover because hey, plenty more fish in the sea, and not like he meant to be an asshole or anything, but sometimes he was, but anyway, now he has bigger problems.

His bigger problem is that what Phil asked with his mouth was, _is the sex we are having great for you too?_ , and what he didn't understand nearly as fast as a grown-ass adult is supposed to was that what Phil was actually trying to get Clint to answer was, _am I doing well enough to hold your interest?_

In fairness this was in part because the question was asked post-orgasm, in that panting, gasping, sweaty space where really nothing hurts, and even Phil Coulson is not quite as sharp in the fifteen or twenty seconds between the last little spurt of come and the reboot of the brain, so that part isn't Clint's fault. Still, probably he should have stopped with yes (true! Yes was true!) and not at all said anything about how probably nothing was going to ever top that time with the guy in Miami, which, okay in retrospect adrenaline, desperation, and some inadvertent low-key drug exposure had probably had a lot to do with the quality of that orgasm anyway, but yep. He did.

But _also_ to be fair, the whole conversation was stupid. On multiple levels, because for one thing there is seriously zero reason like at all ever for Phil to be worried that he's too old or too boring or whatever other completely absurd shit he comes up with, and for another thing Clint _is_ a grown-ass adult, and on the plus side he _did_ work it out on his own before having to go ask Nat or worse, Bobbi, what the hell he'd done, but still, damage done.

Also, in an example of the personal growth he has undergone in the last few years because apparently being an eternal teenager is in conflict with adulting sometimes, he did not have to go ask Nat how to convey what he'd actually meant, which was _not_ for Phil to think he needed to start coming up with incredibly athletic and challenging positions or develop a willingness to engage in the kind of high-risk sex – physical danger risk, not like, STI risk because fuck that, Clint is all in on this monogamy thing and they did testing and everything – that was part of the Miami thing. No, it was that yeah, sure, Miami had been the best isolated orgasm in his experience, like, on a scale that had only to do with the maybe five or six seconds, tops, of actually shooting semen out of his body. But Phil was – _is_ – way better, because they have, you know, a relationship. With cuddling and breakfast and newspapers and the remote and Clint never knew he could have soppy opinions about towels being folded different ways but evidently he can because Phil started folding them in thirds instead of halves so there would be room for both on the one rack right outside the shower door, and, like, it's a _towel_ , but feelings were had. Whatever.

None of this solved his tactical-slash-relationship problem, though. 

Because here was the thing. He'd told Phil about all the ways this is better than the other thing. All right, maybe not _told_. He'd said some words, many of which were about the ways Phil made him feel secure and warm in his chest and generally like happy might be a thing he could have? But he was about 97% sure he hadn't made any sense. Still, after a while, and with a lot of cuddling and maybe another thirty or forty orgasms apiece, Phil had stopped seeming quite so tense about it, maybe, and so that was a start, and Clint had made very sure not to say anything so fucking dumb again.

But he was also pretty sure Phil was still trying to figure out how to beat Mr. Miami, and so fine, he needed to get him to understand, and as far as he could tell, the only way to do that was to get _him_ to confess to liking anything at all better than a specific sex act with Clint. Maybe.

Unless he actually _was_ , continually and increasingly, the best Phil had ever had, which, okay, possible in the way it's always possible that something somewhere will do some thing, but come on, there was that one time with the reunion sex post-mission but pre-pickup, and that had involved mud, a near miss with a hidden scythe under some hay and (eventually, fortunately not at a critical juncture) an angry hog, so probably that had not been, like, the ultimate sex experience ever for Phil up to that point, right? Right?

So he'd planned carefully, chosen his moment, been sneaky like the spy and assassin he is. 

Hey, Phil is a fucking awesome agent, okay? But even he has a moment of lesser brilliance when his partner waits until he's running on three hours of sleep, spent most of the previous day voluntarily being a test case regarding the effects of one of SHIELD's more recent (semi-effective) tries at a truth serum, and has just been awakened way after midnight by a blow job, and so, in that moment of weakness, Clint had pulled the trigger on his question. It was a simple question: best orgasm of your life?

And Phil, even as he obviously tried to shut his mouth against the words coming out, had said, hmmm, that would definitely have to be the time in college when he came twice with two dicks in his ass and one in his mouth. ...And then he conked right back out, and in the morning? Yeah, he obviously had no recollection besides a fuzzy, hazy, warm-grin-inducing happy glow regarding four am blowjobs and awesome boyfriends.

But so this is why Clint now has a new problem.

Which is his _own fucking fault_. Again. God.

Also: note to self, Clint, don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, even if you think you do.

Because now he both gets why Phil had felt a little deflated about his own revelation (he's told his brain that this is fucking ridiculous; the relationship they have is way better than wild college hijinks, probably, not that he would know because college was far and away not his late-teenage experience, and anyway even if it's not, objectively better sex, it's better everything else and it all comes out pretty great, which is what he was trying to tell Phil except it turns out he's also now trying to convince himself and what the hell, self, you are getting regular sex-and-cuddles and amazing scones and there are, there are towels and so on), and also, they've never come anywhere near talking about bringing anyone else to bed with them, but he now really, _really_ wants to see what it's like to see Phil blissed out and so, so full and ...shit.

Why does he create these problems for himself? _Why?_

But, okay, so after a good thirty seconds of soul-searching, he concludes he is, at least at this time, waaaay too fucking jealous to let anyone else anywhere near Phil's ass, even if Phil were comfortable with the idea which probably he is not. Or, okay, maybe not jealous exactly, but Clint knows his own issues, thanks, and he's never learned to share as well as he might have if he hadn't grown up doing without all the damn time, you know? 

So what else is on the table? Clint knows that he's not tremendously lacking in size or anything, but he's not _huge_ and maybe that's important to Phil? Maybe he really wishes Clint had a monster cock and just won't say? Ugh, worrying about sexual adequacy is _exhausting_. Dildos are an obvious solution, and of course he _can_ fuck Phil _while_ he has a dildo in him, not that he's ever tried it but it seems pretty doable, but that doesn't solve the mouth problem. He's been going around and around about it for a week, and so far nothing really seems entirely appealing.

Which is what he's thinking about now, with Phil pinned to the bed, his dick in Clint's mouth and two of Clint's fingers in his slick ass. (It's not the _only_ thing he's thinking about, but it's in the rota)

Phil had been in the shower when Clint came home from a post-rangework run, and Clint had (of course) stripped down quickly and jumped in with him. However, it had quickly become clear that Phil had been standing there thinking about sex – he was hard, he had lube on hand, and before they exchanged much more than a hello, Phil was backed up against the wall, legs wrapped around Clint's hips and coming on Clint's belly then begging for more.

It was when Phil came again when Clint did that Clint realized something was up, and when Phil was hard yet again five minutes later, squirming and swearing about it as they toweled off, that he crossed his arms over his chest and asked if there was anything Phil wanted to share.

Oh, of _course_. Sex pollen. Obviously.

“Well, I didn't think I'd been hit,” Phil had said, a little defensively. “I was fine while Jostens and Nakamatsu were all over each other, and even when Hearst had a delayed reaction when we got back to the safehouse, I was still fine. I was fine until I got _here_.”

Clint raised his eyebrows. “Medical cleared you?”

“ _Yes_. But then I got home, and...” He gestured at his bobbing dick with both hands. “It's like I got a whiff of _you_ in the air, and everything went crazy.”

“You got hit by sex pollen that only triggered when you smelled _me_?” Clint wasn't sure he saw how that could work, but Phil had shaken his head and sighed. 

“Nakamatsu and Jostens filed cohab forms last week. And Nemkova was at the safehouse.”

“Hearst and Nemkova have been banging for like two years. So you think it triggers... but wait, Knaus and Girardi are also fucking--”

“Grudgefucking. They don't actually _like_ each other, much less love.” With that, Phil had squirmed again, flushing red, and glared at his swollen dick. “I'm curious, but not curious enough to call and ask, what happened when Appleby got home.” 

Clint hadn't really know what to do with any of that, especially the sort of impromptu declaration of love, which, okay, they live together and do stuff together and act like an old married couple if Clint correctly understands the concept (probably, but see: raised in a circus followed by military and SHIELD; normal isn't his area) but still there went the feelings again, so he tried to sort of put them aside. Except the one that said that if Phil needed tons of sex because of him, he was definitely going to provide it, somehow. Which was how they wound up back in the bedroom, and is why Clint is working to get Phil off for the third time in maybe half an hour, forty minutes.

He's just swallowing around the head of Phil's dick again when Phil moans and mutters, _more_ , and without much consideration Clint adds a third and fourth finger. He pulls up and asks, _better?_

Phil nods, but he's rocking up and back, really pushing onto Clint's fingers deep, and Clint meets his eyes. “Still more? Because we can, I mean, you'll tell me if I hurt you? But I need you to slow down a little.”

Phil closes his eyes and relaxes his body, still jerking his hips up and back involuntarily, but it'll do. He turns his head into Clint's pillow and inhales deeply, and Clint pours more lube over his left hand that's three knuckles, four fingers deep in Phil. He spreads those fingers a little, takes his time, and watches what he's doing as his thumb folds in and his fingers curl down over it with just enough pressure to stay inside the lip of Phil's ass.

Phil takes another deep breath and lifts up on his elbows, staring down to where Clint's got half his hand in there now.

“Now better?”

Phil shudders and moves himself suddenly, pushing down over Clint's whole fist and gasping as he grabs his dick and starts to pull.

“Oh hell no,” Clint says. He bats Phil's hand away and goes back to sucking him, slow and careful so he doesn't lose his attention on the fact that he has his _fist_ in Phil's ass. He looks up, meets Phil's eyes, and puts up his right hand, fingers to Phil's mouth for him to suck, and starts working on timing prostate pressure and suction and movement all in tandem. It's difficult to focus on everything at once and keep an eye on making sure he's not overdoing anywhere, but hey, the tactical part of his brain is on the job now, and making Phil make the noises he's making? Super hot, and a whole lot of fun.

Plus, he's Hawkeye. He can keep an eye on a lot of things. It's his superpower.

This should take forever, given Phil is forty-eight years old and two orgasms in, but really, it's only a few minutes once the whole fist thing is underway. Phil bites down on Clint's fingers when he comes, shouting and clenching and pumping out more come than should even be possible in round three, and Clint grins, come dripping off his chin as he eases his hand free and watches Phil lie there panting with the loopiest smile Clint's ever seen and sweat running off his body and dripping on the sheet (which, fine, given the lube situation they probably needed to change the sheets anyway). His ass looks red and sore, but nothing is bleeding inside or out as far as Clint can tell, so he noses Phil's balls and presses a quick kiss to his perineum (Phil jumps and swears, but he's still loopy and relaxed, so Clint's pretty sure it's okay), then pulls himself up to flop down next to Phil. 

He wipes off his chin with one forearm. “Should we clean up before or after the cuddling?” he asks, ignoring the fact that Phil's teeth maybe kind of seriously bruised the shit out his two fingers and probably he really ought to get ice on them if he has any sense.

“After. I don't know if I'm done,” Phil says, nosing into Clint's hair. 

Because Clint is kind of awesome at being a little bit of an asshole, he nuzzles back, then whispers, “Was that as good as three dicks at once in college?”

Phil narrows his eyes at him. “When did I tell you about that, and why on earth would you try to beat a dildo, a vibrator, and a fucking machine?”

Clint blinks. “A _what_ now?”

“A dildo... you know what, never mind. It's not a competition, and you don't need to prove anything and I cannot believe you got me to say any such thing. Yes, it was as good. It was better. It was maybe something we should do again. Also, if anyone wants to know why I can't come to work tomorrow due to inability to walk, you're in charge of explaining your competitive nature.”

“Oh, right. Because I was the one asking for more – no, I have no _complaints_ about anything here, but holy shit, Phil. You keep asking for what you want. I'm in.”

“Hey, I mostly want you. The rest is frosting.”

“Fisting, frosting, whatever.”

Phil draws in a sharp breath and then busts out in giggles, which is high on the list of Clint's favorite things, when Phil's guard is so far down he can be brought to that place, and covers his face with his hand. “Oh god.”

“All your fault,” Clint says. He feels himself going completely gooey with feelings in his chest and all again watching Phil laugh, and okay, he's getting more comfortable with being a ball of goo? But he's also not great at it (yet. He's committed, just not adept), so after a minute he sits up. “Hey, so I'mma go grab some ice for my hand. Want any for your ass?”

“What's wrong with your – okay, next time we are putting something else in my mouth.”

“The hell we are. I only need this hand for aim, man. I'm looking forward to making you lose it this hard again.” Clint leans back down and presses a hard fast kiss to Phil's mouth. “Be right back with ice, a washcloth, and, what do you think, Gatorade?”

“Water's fine,” Phil says. His stomach growls. 

“And snacks. You decide if you think you need more fucking while I'm gone. Here.” Clint scoops up the still sweaty-damp shirt he'd discarded an hour earlier and tossed it at Phil's face. “Probably this will help.”

Phil catches it, but sets it aside, and when Clint comes back, he's curled up around it, snoring. Which, that's fair enough; Clint mostly wants a nap, too. But, they're both going to wake up feeling shitty if they don't at least get some water in, particularly Phil, so he prods him awake and helps him wash up while he gulps down a quart or so.

Naturally, by the time he's done, Phil's looking at him a little guiltily and biting his lip. “More, then?”

“Maybe. But –“

“But nothing. We've already outpaced the guy in Miami by a couple of miles, but I got no objection to seeing what kind of record we can set.” He picks up the lube from the side table and hands it to Phil, then crawls over him and flops down on his back, legs wide. “Bring it.”

Phil rolls toward him, winces, and settles between his legs, pushing up to his hands and knees to kiss and nibble at Clint's belly and down past his hipbone to his inner thigh. His cock twitches and starts to fill, but yeah, without the benefit of sex pollen, or maybe, like, _love_ pollen? Or something. Anyway, without help, forty isn't the age for fucking all night, so there's not much chance he's getting it up again for real in the next little while. Still, what Phil's doing feels pretty nice, and in any case, right this minute he has no problems at all, of his own making or otherwise, so he nudges in with one knee to make Phil look up. “Hey, so you know I love you too, right?” Because despite everything, it's not really something they've said, and if Phil can say it so can he; it's not like it's not extremely true.

The smile in Phil's eyes and on his face are worth every second of fretting he's done, over the entire relationship, and Clint sits up, bringing Phil with him, for a kiss. “Come on, then. Show me how you feel.”

Phil bites his lip and pushes him back down, then follows along, murmuring, “Maybe let's take our time a little.” His hands roam, slow and thorough, and Clint can't complain about that, either.

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, sure, why NOT put truth serum and sex pollen in the same fic largely in service of getting to the fisting? I mean, come on. This is what fanfic is for, amirite?)


End file.
